


bloody roses and nicotine bullets

by starrynightsea (puppydeanandjen)



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reverse AU, Angst, Established Relationship, Fucked Up Domesticity, Insane Peter Parker, Kissing, M/M, Peter Parker is 18, Suicidal Thoughts, Underage Smoking, Vigilante Quentin Beck, Villain Peter Parker, heroes are villains, slight gore, villains are heroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-10 17:20:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20139127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puppydeanandjen/pseuds/starrynightsea
Summary: Quentin points a gun at Peter's head. Peter thinks it's true love.





	1. bloody roses

**Author's Note:**

> So this au is basically the Avengers as mafia styled villains to clear things up.
> 
> Here's me with a new WIP even though I haven't finished my first one /finger guns

Regretfully, Peter takes another breath of life again as his feet land on the concrete. He rips the stupid eye mask off his face, feeling the cool wind pass him by, to clearly stare up at the moon while he huffs out carbon dioxide. Ecstasy is no longer running high in veins, draining away into the calming silence of the night. 

He hates it. 

He’s in the fucking city for God sake; there should be neverending sirens and shouts sizzling in the toxic sky. But this alleyway is just far enough from all that. Like as planned.

At least, the sharp scent of iron from the multitudes of well-dressed corpses that surround him is still within the area. One of Mr. Stark’s drones will come soon to clean it up though—can’t have any proof that could possibly be traced back to the team. 

It’s such a shame. 

He’s quite proud of work he did, especially on that one blonde agent: webbed the guy to the wall before lodging a broken pole into his throat. 

Blood had splattered across his face and clothes: the crimson silk suit vest and white collared short-sleeved shirt completely tarnished with the liquid, becoming even more soaked as he continued killing. His black shorts aren’t looking any better either. 

Peter can practically hear the complaints:_ “This is why you leave the grunt work to the grunts” _. 

But where’s the fun in that? Why have these superpowers if he wasn’t going to use them?

Well, he might have some ulterior motives as well. 

Suddenly, a tingle runs through his skin; the hairs on his arms and legs standing up straight, warning him of incoming danger. 

A grin stretches across his face as he places the domino mask back on, eyes adjusting to the lenses—clear on the inside with a cover of white mesh on the out—and his vision is now brighter and sharper; details of this grimy area become too precise for it to be dark out. Really ruins the thrill of nighttime excursions. 

An automated female voice rings in his ears: “Welcome back, Peter”. 

“Hi, Karen,” He replies, excitement bubbling within him, as he hears footsteps approaching. More men and women in suits appear out of thin air with machine guns in their hands. “So tell me how many unknown drones are there this time?”

“Five, total.”

Peter hums. Half the amount of last time, but it’s still pretty impressive, considering how many he’s destroyed in the past. 

He wonders how much longer they’re going to play this little game. How many bots does have to destroy for all things to end? 

“Sensors are detecting gas entering into the area,” Karen says. “Would you like to deploy the oxygen mask?” 

“Hmm, not this time.” 

Peter licks his lips, tugging at the ends of his black leather gloves. 

“Ready or not, here I come,” he shouts before taking a deep breath in and closing his eyes. He allows his instincts to bleed into every part of his body until he’s simply floating in the darkness, aware and unaware of everything around him. Pure trust in his own subconscious and abilities. 

‘Move,’ it says. 

And he does. 

He flips and jumps into the air. Kicking things that he can’t see. Shooting webs onto unknown objects and flinging them around. Punching and tearing with his own bare hands. 

Once most of the warning signals in his brain fall silent, Peter’s eyes fly open, finally exhaling, and he spins around to find a familiar man with a distinct, gold-rimmed dome for a head, grabbing a silver suitcase off the ground: Mysterio, Master of Illusions, to the general public, but, to Peter, he’s Quentin Beck, the love of his life. 

“I found you,” Peter says and Beck jerks upward in surprise. 

Peter fires a web at the case, yanking it out of Beck’s hands before he could get a good grip on it. It flies up into the sky and lands perfectly into Peter’s arms. 

“Thanks, I almost forgot about that.”

“Give me back the case and I’ll let you go unharmed,” Beck states. The voice is heavily distorted, modulated at a deeper tone, completely different from the normal silky, honeyed one that Peter adores, especially during the times when those strong arms—right now covered in green sequins—are wrapped around his waist and hairy chin is rested upon his shoulder as Peter makes coffee. 

It’s gross. 

“Sorry, no can do,” Peter replies as he scoops up a handgun from one of the bodies’ hands. “You should’ve added in the ‘harmed’ part. Might have persuaded me a bit.” 

“I don’t even know why you keep sending these stupid drones,” he continues while taking a step forward, footsteps light and gentle like a ballet dancer traveling across the stage. The other is frozen; a deer caught in the headlights, Peter supposes. 

“I’ve already told you, Mr. Beck,” he says, stopping when they are mere inches away from each other. He grabs onto Beck’s wrists and puts the gun into his hand, pushing each finger to curl around the grip, as Peter stares into his own reflection created by the glass. Peter hates how he’s unable to see tousled, dark brown hair and deep, tired blue eyes like he saw this morning when he got out of bed. “You have to pull the trigger with your own fingers. You have to be the one to kill me.” 

Clutching the barrel of the gun, Peter raises it upward until it’s right against his forehead. 

“That’s the only way for you to win.”

_ It’s the only way I’ll find satisfaction. With my blood on your hands. _

It’s very nostalgic; this moment. Brings him back to the first time they met, when they were just strangers and not more than that: vigilante and villain meeting on the battlefield. When Peter was utterly fooled by technological and chemical tricks which resulted in him almost receiving a bullet to the head. The closest he’s ever come to the death he craved and it was absolutely exhilarating. 

That exhilaration quickly transformed into an obsession and then it formed new ideals and dreams: hopes. 

“Until then, I won’t die,” Peter assures him. “It’s my promise to you.” 

Getting killed by the one you love, there can’t be a better way to go out. 


	2. nicotine bullets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a bit of a time skip here just as a warning, but it's still the same day. 
> 
> Unfortunately, I probably won't continue this AU anytime soon as the MCU is something I don't really know about. There are some snippets that didn't make it into the final cut and I'll be posting them some time on my Twitter. 
> 
> Thank you so much for your guy's kudos and comments! I really couldn't have finished it without your support. I hope you guys enjoy!

Peter got home first: all cleaned up in a t-shirt and jeans with groceries for the week in hand. 

He never enjoyed being the first one back; the apartment is too quiet—except for the occasional sirens and honks outside—and too hollow for his liking. This petite one-room flat seems larger than it normally is when he’s alone.

Plus, this event has been occurring more often. A definite if they end up fighting that day. A day like today. 

Placing the bags on the marble kitchen counter, Peter sighs and starts unpacking. 

He recalls a time when things weren’t like this—before Beck found out that Peter was a criminal. Morning kisses in bed as they murmured love words in between each one. Snuggling on the couch with ice cream cartons as they watched cheesy horror movies while Beck would complain about how trash the special effects were. Nipping at each other’s skin with Peter pinned against the door, so hot and bothered that nothing really mattered anymore. 

That all came to a shattering crash two months ago. 

It was an accident. The rival gang—led by the ‘dignified and fair’, Steve Rogers—had ambushed him on the way back home. Well, Wanda Maximoff to be exact. Brought him to an abandoned building and said that this was a warning for his side to stop digging into a business on their turf. Of course, the fucking witch had to rough him up a little to show that they were serious, not that Peter was complaining. He hadn’t gotten a good fight in that day and yeah, he’s irked by the fact that they decided to come after him because he’s supposedly the ‘weakest link’ being the youngest member. 

Peter was so focused on the fight that he didn’t notice someone was watching from afar until he heard the echoing whisper of “Peter” and then he saw him: Beck—not Mysterio—with utter shock written across his face. 

It’s an expression that Peter thought he would only see on his deathbed. 

The sound of the door unlocking pulls him out of his thoughts. He closes the fridge just in time to see Beck coming in. There’s a certain weariness painted over his face as if age is swallowing him up: heavy bags under his eyes, deeper wrinkles on the forehead, and bushier, longer facial hair. 

A polar opposite from how Beck looked back then; the day that their civilian selves first met in the hallway of this very apartment complex. 

Peter, at the tender age of sixteen, had played the part of the lollipop neighbor just moving in, living all alone because his rich ass parents didn’t want to deal with him—which was partly true as Mr. Stark wasn’t interested in hardcore parenting. He remembers knocking on Beck’s door to ask for some help in unloading the moving truck like he planned to. He remembers how that electronic profile Peter’s been staring at for weeks really didn’t do the man justice: smooth skin and fake, kind smiles and gentle, yet hard eyes. 

It’s been two years since then. 

“Welcome back,” Peter says with a smile, walking towards his boyfriend. Standing on his tiptoes, he places a chaste kiss on Beck’s cheek and takes a good whiff of the pungent scent of alcohol and cigarettes before stepping back. It’s a smell that he doesn’t hate; what can he say, he likes the dirty, rugged look. 

Likes how it invokes the feeling of danger and love, swirled together until they are both one and the same. 

“Smoking again?” Peter asks, teases really. “You know that’s bad for you.”

“But you like it,” Beck lazily replies with a smirk, leaning in close, filling the gap between them, and kissing him on the lips this time. It’s sweet and quick and stings like poison. Not as intense or endearing as before. 

“I do,” Peter says. His hands grip onto Beck’s arms, keeping him here and near. “But I also don’t want you smoking yourself to an early death.” 

His fingers run down to the waistband and dip into the front pocket, pulling out the rectangular packet inside. Flicking it open with his thumb, Peter counts the number of cigarettes.

“Eighteen left. Impressive. I thought you’d have less.”

A small smile stretches across his face as he mutters, “One more shouldn’t hurt.” 

“Let’s go outside,” Peter says, attention back on Beck as he grins like a child wanting to go to the playground. He can feel Beck’s arm tense up in his hold, but his expression remains unfazed by it as he mimics Peter’s grin. Lying at its finest; typical for this man whose entire career is staked on deception. It’s strange, although, that even though that kind of interest is rich with moral ambiguity, Beck still believes in the greater good: murder is bad and saving people is good; the whole shabang. 

Peter has never understood that part of him. He probably never will.

It doesn’t take them long to slip through the window to the fire escape. The weather isn’t too cold, but there’s still an occasional gust of wind that gives him shivers. Streetlamps are lit in a yellow hue, illuminating over the city that never sleeps. The noise of the cars and people moving is resounding in his ears. A nice night. 

Peter hands him a cigarette when both of them make it through, sticking his fingers into Beck’s other pocket to find the lighter. Beck puts the cig in between his lips and Peter helps him light it, watching as the paper turns red and crumples away into black. 

After that, he takes one out for himself, shoving the packet in his jeans, and places the cigarette in his mouth as well. When he lights it, white smoke starts spilling out from both ends. Warmth brews inside of him before settling in a cooling, calming sensation. Perfect for a time like this when nerves are set on edge. When they’re on the brink of implosion. 

There’s about a foot between them, arms are leaning against the black railing as they look anywhere that the other is not. 

They don’t speak for a while, but Peter knows what this midnight conversation is going to hold. 

“Why are you doing this?” Beck says, breaking the silence. Just as Peter expected.

“Having a smoke with my boyfriend?” Peter asks, acting because this version of himself shouldn’t know a thing. If he ever admits it, there would be evidence and he’d be arrested. Live a boring life behind bars until his time expires. It would be a literal nightmare.

“I mean,” Beck says and Peter peers over to see how the moonlight touches upon pale skin and glides down his chiseled chin, how those long lashes bat over deep blue eyes, how pretty lips curve around the stick as Beck takes another breath in and exhales a stream of white. “On that day, why did you make a promise like that? Something you know I can’t fucking do.” 

Those eyes stare up at the vast and empty dark blue sky as if trying to find an explanation inside there, find a single star. But he’ll never be able to find it as the reason can only be found below: in the dead.

“You shouldn’t ask questions to things I don’t have answers to,” Peter states, huffing out a puff of smoke with his fingers grasping onto the cigarette. 

“Then answer me this,” Beck says, frustration seeping into his voice. Neither of them take their eyes off the sight above.

“Do you still love me?” 

It’s soft and cracky: vulnerable. Totally unlike the con man who wears masks of confidence and compassion and amiability. 

Peter likes it, but he also likes everything about him. 

“I’ve loved you since the day we first met,” Peter responds.

_ I wouldn’t be doing this otherwise. _

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/PuppyLoey_) for more BeckPeter content. ♥


End file.
